Fire and Improbability
by DraumrEitha
Summary: Moriarty's opinion of John Watson slowly starts to change. How could someone so ordinary be so difficult to ignore? But what develops between them couldn't have been guessed by anyone. (This fic is going to be slow to start with, and the rating is for drug abuse, although there may be sexual content later on. Also, Mary isn't pregnant in this even though its set after series 3.)
1. Prologue

**Obviously the characters from Sherlock belong to Doyle and the BBC, I claim none of them.**

 **A/N: This fic will take place after Moriarty comes back at the end of S3, it's just the prologue that will be set earlier on :) enjoy...**

Prologue

Jim sat and waited.

He was perched on the edge of a flimsy wooden bench in a damp, dark, tiled room. His project was still unconscious. This was what Jim hated about his job: he had to be his own stage crew. The role was one of a lifetime, but he spent more of his time preparing the stage than he did delivering his lines.

So Jim waited with his head in his hands and his elbows on his knees. Doctor Watson sat on a fold out metal chair about a foot in front of him. The Doctor's hands were tied behind him to the back of the chair. It was more for effect than to actually secure him; Jim had an employee in the corner of the room holding a gun to ensure his captive didn't try to run away.

Jim regarded the man in front of him critically. He was fit, sturdy, and handsome. The only things about him that really stood out to Jim were his hands. Surgeon's hands; they looked as though they would be adept with a scalpel. The criminal mused that if Doctor John Watson was as clever as Sherlock and as malleable as Sebastian Moran, he would make a perfect business partner. Although the same effect could be reached by simply drugging Sherlock with low doses of scopolamine, and keeping Doctor Watson nearby as eye candy.

The captive shifted almost unnoticeably. Jim motioned for his threatening employee in the corner to stand up straighter.

As soon as Doctor Watson came to he started to pull at his bindings, it made Jim smile that his theatrics were appreciated. He lent forwards and cleared his throat loudly enough to snap the Doctor to attention. Watson's head snapped around and he met Moriarty's eyes, their close proximity clearly shocked Watson and he shrank back in the chair before speaking.

"Where...? " His voice was tired and drawn, the one word that he said seemed to exhaust him. He closed his eyes and waited for Moriarty to respond.

"Oh, Johnny!" The consulting criminal exclaimed in a voice that was much to joyful for the occasion. _Well, this needs to be memorable, can't have Doctor Watson or his keeper forgetting how_ scary _I am._ "You are just where you've been for the last three hours, you weren't complaining about it then, so I assumed it was to your liking.

"Quite fitting isn't it? That we're in a changing room? Oh, don't look so confused. Haven't you learnt aaaaaanything from dear Sherly? Can't you work out what comes next?" Jim opened his eyes wide and stared straight at the Doctor. Unfortunately he hadn't opened his eyes yet, he just kept nodding, shallow little bobs of his head in time with Jim's words. It was a shame. He was missing the show.

"Okay then Johnny." Jim said sympathetically. He got up from the bench and walked around to the back of Doctor Watson's chair. The movement, as predicted, made the captive open his eyes to track his captor's movement.

Jim put his hands on Watson's shoulders and lent in close to his ear, "I'll tell you what will happen next." He dropped his voice several tones and made himself sound much less conversational, "You will take off that frankly horrible jacket and replace it with one I've bought for you. I'm not sure it'll be to your taste, but there's a man over there," Jim guided Watson's head to look at his threatening employee in the corner, "that knows just how much I want you to try it on."

Jim then untied the Doctor's hands and pulled him to his feet. He motioned for him to undress. As the Doctor started to take off his coat, Jim went into one of the nearby changing cubicles to retrieve his semtex jacket.

When he came back, Watson had just dropped his own jacket to the floor. Moriarty let his eyes graze up and down his body now that he wasn't quite so wrapped up. "It's such a shame you're so ordinary, Johnny." The Doctor shakily walked to Moriarty and slid his arms into the explosive-covered jacked he was holding up expectantly. As soon as his arms were in Jim had grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him so that they were face to face. The criminal held him at arms length and nodded approvingly, "Yes, Sherly will looooove this on you!

"Now, I'm going to go out there," Jim motioned to the pool entrance, "and speak to our dear Sherlock first. When I motion for you to do so, you will follow me out."

John, for the second time since waking up, tried to speak, "Please... just - I -"

John swallowed as Jim's threatening employee shifted in the corner, then he nodded and Moriarty. Jim acknowledged the nod as confirmation that the Doctor would follow his stage instructions. Before he walked out of the changing rooms, Jim bent down and picked up the Doctor's coat. He brushed it down and slipped a small piece of card into the left pocket, then he held it out to Watson. "It's probably the most expensive item of clothing you own, put it back on so that you can't blame me for it's loss."

Doctor Watson wordlessly took the coat and slipped it on over the semtex. Then he watched the world's only consulting criminal walk out onto his stage.


	2. Chapter One

**A/N: There's drug use in this chapter, so if that bothers you, sorry. Don't read it if you think it could trigger or anything, I'd hate to be responsible for something like that.**

Chapter One

Sherlock had been sprawled across his bed when John had let himself into 221B Baker Street. The doctor had been aware that his friend hadn't been sleeping lately and initially felt relief that this pattern had been broken. It wasn't until he noticed that Sherlock's eyes were open that the panic set in. _Symptoms: uncontrollable shivering, glassy eyes, unresponsive, sweating._ John listed off the things that were wrong with Sherlock in his head.

Obviously he had taken something, John just didn't know what. So he gave the flat a cursory check, not really expecting to find any of Sherlock's stash. He'd been looking for about half an hour when a strangled coughing noise came from the bedroom. Once John had rushed to his detective's bedside he immediately saw the problem; Sherlock was choking on his own vomit.

John rolled him into the recovery position and sat on the edge of the bed. It was a sad state of affairs when the smartest man in London was choking on his own vomit. _Sherlock Holmes has never been smart,_ John found himself thinking, _He's just observant with a good memory. That doesn't make him smart._ John got up and opened the curtains and windows. He cleaned up a bit and made himself a cup of tea. Then he carried a chair through to Sherlock's room from the kitchen, fetched the detective's latest case file and settled down. He was resigned to the fact that Sherlock might be out for some time, and clearly he could not be left alone.

The case was boring. If even John found it boring her wondered why Sherlock had been spending his time on it.

It was probably another one of his 'linked' cases. Sherlock had been absolutely captivated by seemingly random cases ever since Moriarty's network had broadcast that video of him _still alive._ He kept telling John that there was something wrong with the cases and that they were somehow linked to Moriarty. Unfortunately nobody knew exactly how they were linked to anything.

John had complete faith in Sherlock though. If he said the cases were linked, then John didn't doubt for one second that they were. What John doubted was that Sherlock would ever find the links. He had been gradually increasing the number of nicotine patches he wore until his arms were covered in them. He hadn't been eating or sleeping more than John forced him to, and John hadn't been able to force him to enough. Hopefully that could change soon though, now that he might be coming back to 221B.

John closed his eyes and let himself doze.

* * *

When Sherlock started to come back to his senses they, as usual, refused to cooperate. His head pounded, his eyes were fuzzy, his ears were ringing, and all he could taste was bile. And it was so bright. He was sure he had left the curtains closed. Slowly, so as not to make his head spin anymore that strictly necessary, Sherlock sat up.

The first thing he noticed was obviously John. The doctor was asleep on one of the kitchen chairs that had been brought into the room. Sherlock mentally cursed himself for not putting the chain on the door. _The one time I forget, John, really?_ Then he swung his legs off the bed and attempted to leave the room without waking his former flatmate. If he could just get a few paracetamol and a cup of tea, the inevitable conversation he was to have with John would seem a lot less daunting.

As Sherlock started to put his weight onto his feet, two things happened at the same time: the floor skidded away from him, and the ground slid towards him. It was very disorientating and by the time he had scrambled to a shaky upright position, he was aware of John's eyes boring into him. He straightened himself out as much as possible and walked unsteadily towards the living room.

John, unsurprisingly, followed closely behind him. Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa with his hands covering his face. He desperately needed something to dampen down this sensory overload.

When he felt a hand bat his own away from his face, he didn't resist. John was standing above him holding out two paracetamol tablets. Sherlock took them gratefully.

"You opened..." He started, but quickly trailed off. There was no point in insulting John's intelligence by stating the obvious, it would be dumb and hypocritical. He was surprised that, of all the things John would do while his friend was high and unresponsive, he would open the curtains.

"Yes, Sherlock. Yes I did. I opened your curtains. I didn't want to sit in the dark while I waited for you to _wake the fuck up._ " Clearly John wasn't as calm as he had been acting.

Sherlock groaned as the shouting seemed to saw through his skull, but he forced himself to answer in the strongest voice he could muster, "You didn't have to be there, I wasn't expecting you to be."

"No, you're right, I could have left you. Who cares if the great Sherlock Holmes dies as his airway is blocked by his own vomit? I honestly can't believe you. I _can't believe that you would start using again._ Jesus, Sherlock, we spoke about this! How long has it been going on for?" John looked at Sherlock like he was expecting an answer, but the detective was still trying to decipher what he had said. It was all too sharp and loud for him to understand. "Fine, but we are having this conversation later. Just - just sort yourself out."

With that John grabbed his coat and left the flat. Sherlock closed his eyes again and sank into the sofa.

* * *

James stood in front of a full length mirror and, for the hundredth time since he had returned to London, missed Jim. He hadn't had a chance to use the character since his little broadcast. James had been busy planting petty crimes around the city to draw Sherlock in. He had estimated that the detective should have worked out the pattern last week, and now James was just bored.

The criminal knew that something must be wrong with Sherlock, he had never been disappointed by the man before, but as long as he kept himself locked away inside that blasted flat James couldn't find out what was going on.

Doctor Watson was much easier to track, so James had been receiving regular reports about his activities. It seemed that he had recently left his wife, Mary, and was planning to move back into 221B Baker Street. James knew it was none of his concern, but he was bored and Sherlock wasn't playing, so he dug a little deeper into the matter. He read a few emails here, accessed a few personal files there, and got straight to the issue.

Mary was trying to get pregnant; she had stopped picking up her birth control pills from the local chemist. James almost laughed out loud. By reading their emails it seemed that the relationship had been on the rocks since John had told her that he didn't want children. So, she had taken matter into her own hands, and tried to trap John with an accidental pregnancy. _She was always a good liar,_ James thought, _and Doctor Watson still seems to catch her every time._


	3. Chapter Two

**A/N: I'm sorry for being so stingy with Moriarty, it's killing me to write him so little! I don't think there are any warning to go with this chapter, so enjoy :)**

Chapter Two

Sherlock was fully functioning when John came back. He had no idea how long it had been since the doctor left, but he had filled the time effectively. An entire wall of the living room was now covered with a map of London. It was actually several large-scale maps of different parts of the city that he had positioned to be as accurate as possible. Sherlock had found them in his room, moved the sofa away from the wall to make space, and put big red 'X's everywhere that one of his 'linked' crimes had taken place. Then he had spun the sofa to face the map, sat down, and thought.

John cleared his throat loudly but Sherlock managed to ignore it in favour of working out the minimum network flow of traffic between his 'X's. John cleared his throat again, louder this time.

"There is cough syrup in the kitchen, John, please take some."

"I don't have a sore throat." The doctor replied curtly. At this, Sherlock finally looked at him.

Sherlock looked John up and down. He noted the slight redness of his right palm and the creasing pressed into the material on his left shoulder. The man had clearly been carrying luggage with him recently, but Sherlock couldn't see it. _Why would John have left his luggage out in the hall?_ "John, why don't we talk about whatever this is after you unpack? I've got some things to finish off."

"Actually, Sherlock, what I wanted to talk about was whether you would be alright with -" John shifted uncomfortably, "I mean, would it be okay for me -"

"Yes."

"Yes, what?" John asked. Sherlock couldn't help but to notice that his friend sounded sceptical that he had correctly identified the almost-question.

"Yes, John, it's fine by me if you want to move back in. I honestly don't see why you would think I might have a problem with it. It worked before, why shouldn't it now?"

Sherlock had turned his attention back to the wall. He was so engrossed in the Game that he didn't even hear John's thanks. By the time he dismissed his current theory and looked back to the doctor, he was looking at an empty room again.

* * *

John didn't take long to unpack; he had one small hold-all bag and a rucksack. It was a grand total of thirty minutes before he sat down beside Sherlock in the newly arranged living room with two cups of tea. He held one out to the detective, who took it without looking away from his map.

"So. What's your theory?" John asked.

"I don't have one. If I did, I wouldn't be here doing this." Sherlock replied curtly, took a sip of his tea, then paused. "John, don't you want to talk about last night?"

"Why? Do you have something to say about it?"

"No."

"Well, neither do I." John ended the conversation with a loud sip of his own tea. The silence between the two men stretched out. The doctor finally understood what Sherlock meant about people 'thinking loudly'; he could hear his friend's mind whirring. Unfortunately John couldn't focus on the map himself. His mind was still wrestling with Sherlock's using.

John may have said that he didn't want to talk about it, but really he just didn't want to talk about it with Sherlock. He was under no delusions that Sherlock was okay. He had watched the man shoot Magnusson and be taken away to his own death. It didn't surprise John that he had given in to his cravings. The real issue was that he hadn't been given time to recover before running off after Moriarty again.

A small piece of card entered John's thoughts. A small piece of card that he had found in his coat pocket after meeting Moriarty. All it had on it was the letter 'M' and a mobile telephone number written by hand. _I could contact him, beg him to let up_. John had almost finished his tea now, just a few mouthfuls left. _What good would it do? Like Moriarty would stop just because I begged him_. He stood up and walked to the kitchen. He put his mug in the dishwasher and leant on the counter. _I'd have better luck with Mycroft. Or even just begging Sherlock to stop working the case_.

John quietly left the room, trying not to be too distracting to Sherlock, and headed to his room. Once there he peeled up the corner of his carpet and removed the card from its hiding place. He wasn't sure why he had kept it when he should have handed it straight to Lestrade. Maybe it was because he was afraid that it was a trap. Or he just didn't think it was important. The heavy card felt strangely personal.

It was quality stationary, clearly written by an expensive fountain pen. Nothing strange, this was Moriarty. The writing was messy though. It was rushed, and the numbers were oddly spaced, as if the writer wasn't used to writing this number. That puzzled John because Moriarty probably gave his phone number to his criminal clients every day. _Not his personal number_ , a small and anxious voice in the back of John's head chimed in.

Sherlock had used drugs once. That was all John knew. He had no proof that his friend was addicted, or that he was regularly in the state that he was found in earlier. To contact a known psychopath - a murderer - would be completely absurd. John would only do that if he was completely desperate. Which he wasn't. Now that he had moved back in, the doctor could observe Sherlock and keep him safe.

* * *

"Kill a few more." Jim Moriarty requested, "As close to the centre as you dare."

"Of course, Sir." Moran replied.

Moriarty dismissed the sniper with a wave of his hand and watched him until he reached the door. Just before he was out of the office, Moriarty added, "Oh, and Sebastian? Be... creative."

The door closed and James slumped in his seat. It was a large, squishy office chair. He yawned and rolled it back slightly from his desk, then swung his feet up to rest beside his keyboard. There were three monitors on his desk, the left one showed a CCTV feed from just outside 221B Baker Street, and the others were occupied by spreadsheets. James switched the middle one off and tuned the right one into BBC One so that he could watch EastEnders.


	4. Chapter Three

**A/N: Hey guys! It's been a while... sorry about that, I'm kind of in the middle of A-levels, and they have been _killing_ me. Anyway, I hope you like this chapter. There are no trigger warnings, except that drug abuse is mentioned. I'm hoping that I will update more regularly with longer chapters once summer is here and I'm free to write whatever I want to again :) Also, good luck to any of you that are taking or have taken exams this season!**

Chapter Three

"You can go in now."

John looked about nervously before he reached out and pushed open the door. Standing in front of The British Government didn't faze him much anymore; he was just a man like any other. But standing in front of an elder sibling and telling them that their younger brother might be using drugs again? That was nerve wracking.  
Mycroft didn't look up from the papers on his desk as he motioned for John to sit opposite him. After about five minutes, during which the Doctor still hadn't uttered a word, Mycroft sighed. He removed his spectacles and met John's eyes, who promptly looked down at his hands to avoid the locking gazes with the Holmes brother.

"As much as I love your company, Dr Watson, I would appreciate it if you could tell me what mess my dear brother has got himself into this time, and then left. Quickly now; I've got a lot of work to do, and I'm sure you're about to add to that."

After a moment of struggling with how to phrase what he was about to say, John started talking. Once he'd started, the words came to him much easier and his nervousness was replaced by a determination to do all he could for his friend. "He'd kill me if he knew I was here, and I know you and he don't always see eye to eye. But I also know that you are his brother, you were there last time he went through this. We'd both hoped that what he did on the plane was a one off, but I know it's happened again at least once since then."

"Of course it has, John. Sherlock is an addict. That means he never stops."

For a long moment neither man seemed to breath. Holmes was analyzing Watson's reaction to the harsh words. So John was not to give him one. That meant keeping his face downturned and out of sight until he could reign in the anger that flashed in his eyes. _How haven't misjudged this. Mycroft won't turn away from Sherlock - his_ brother _\- when he needs him this much._ John grit he teeth and looked up into Mycroft's eyes. "What I'm trying to ask, Mycroft, is for your help. For your brother. I'm asking if you'll help Sherlock get through this like you did before. Because I'm way out of my depth."

"You're right in thinking I was there for him last time this problem got out of control. That was because he asked me to be. Unless he asks for my help again, I am disinclined to force it on him." Mycroft didn't break eye contact with John, quite a feat considering the latter seemed to be attempting murder using nothing but his gaze. When John finally looked away again, feeling like Mycroft could probably read every one of his thoughts as long as their eyes were locked, Mycroft sighed, "John, don't be so ridiculous. You are fully aware of how difficult my brother can be. If I come waltzing back to 221B with you, how do you think he'll react? I never managed to get through to him last time. I just picked him up off the streets once he'd worn himself out too much to resist."

"Just keep an eye on him, okay? And ring me if you notice anything. I'll help him, but I need you to help me. Not all of us are omniscient."

"None of us are omniscient, some are just less ignorant than others." A smirk. _Bastard_ , John thought absently. "What's on the card?"

"Card?" John questioned, before realizing that he had Moriarty's telephone number in his pocket. Before he came here he had been thinking of calling again, then decided that a more rational course of action should be tried first. Now, John pulled the card out of his pocket and put it onto Mycroft's desk. "Oh, that. I found it in my pocket after the semtex incident. At that swimming pool last year? Well, I'd forgotten about it in all the kerfuffle at the time, but it popped up again the other day and I was just thinking how I should probably give it to Lestrade, or you. I mean, it could be a way to contact Moriarty, and recently that's become possible again. With him being back from the dead and all." _Stop rambling._ "So, yeah. I'll leave it with you, if you think it's worth anything. Or not."

As John had been speaking, Mycroft's smirk had returned. "Take the card, John. If he gave it to you, I doubt he'd be stupid enough for it to be worth anything to the authorities.

"Now, I really do have quite a lot of work to be getting on with. I trust you can find your own way out?"

John nodded and stuffed the card back into his pocket, then made his escape. Anthea muttered something unimportant as he left, but he wasn't listening.

* * *

John stepped gingerly into what he was sure _used to be_ the sitting room.

"Don't stand there." Came a short order from the other side of the room. Obediently, he moved towards the kitchen, still completely at a loss about what the _hell_ his flat mate might be doing right now. "No, don't stand there either. Just, I don't know! Either come over here or get out of the room."

Across the sitting room (because, _yes,_ this definitely used to be the sitting room.) was a projector, pointing right towards John and blinding him to anything else on that side of the room. But Sherlock's voice seemed to be coming from over there, and it made sense for him to be wanted out the way of the projection. But between John and Sherlock's estimated location was what seemed to be a giant spiders web that stretched from the floor to the ceiling and most of the width of the room. Just as John thought he had found the best route across to the projector and begun to step forward, something whizzed past her ear and bounced off the light switch behind him.

Once his eyes had gotten over the shock, they drew his attention to Sherlock, standing by the projector with his arms crossed and a foul expression on his face. "Hurry. Up."

John picked his way across the room as quickly as he could. Once he was stood next to Sherlock, the detective picked up a packet of TicTacs from what could only be described as 'a pile of random shit', and hurled them across the room to switch the lights back off. What Sherlock had created was quite impressive.

The projector was shining a map of London onto the far wall, and the strings that had been put up across the room were casting shadows onto it. The effect was a map of London with a pretty spiral on it. Both the men stared at it for a few minutes before either spoke. John was the one to break the silence, "So, what exactly is it?" he asked innocently.

"It's a pattern." Came Sherlock's unhelpful reply, when John didn't say anything else he elaborated, pointing, "That string there is making a shadow between the first and second crime scenes. Then that one is going between the second and third. And so on."

"Okay. But how didn't you spot that before? It's just lots of lines, you've been putting lines on that other map for weeks."

"It was the seams between the maps I'd stuck together. And the scales weren't quite the same. So I couldn't see it properly. I'd seen the pattern of course, but the centre of the spiral was over the Themes. After I'd gone to have a look I decided there wasn't anything there, so I didn't mention it."

"The world's only consulting detective, fooled by badly proportioned maps."

Sherlock scowled at him and threw a stapler at the light switch. Then he swept gracefully across the room, swiped up his belstaff and turned to look expectantly at John. "We off then?"

"Sure, sure." muttered John as he tripped and tangled through the strings, "I'll be right there."


End file.
